


all the wonders that remain

by antoineroussel



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand & Finger Kink, Intensely Requited Love, M/M, Praise Kink, Team Dynamics, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antoineroussel/pseuds/antoineroussel
Summary: There’s something about it that makes Patrice’s heart rise to his throat and forces his eyes back to Brad taking his shinguards off no matter how hard he tries to resist it. He’s certain that there’s something wrong with him, but he can’t stop. He thanks God that having Brad only as a friend doesn’t hurt him at all, really, because otherwise he might suffocate.Brad is his best friend.





	all the wonders that remain

**Author's Note:**

> let's pretend that the pittsburgh game didn't happen and we just went to the bye week lmao
> 
> set after the 7-1 game against the hurricanes
> 
> (anyway here's patrice being whipped and brad marchand getting lovingly pounded)

Patrice has been in love with Brad for at least three years now. He realizes quickly that he can’t call it anything else, write it off as a crush. Brad’s been at his side for too long to pretend like his feelings are short-lived. He wouldn’t be giving either of them enough credit. He doesn’t want it to be a crush, and it isn’t. Patrice thinks it’s gotten more intense with new guys on the team who Brad is so close with. The feeling isn’t jealousy; he sneaks glances at Brad offering and giving bear hugs to Brandon and Jake with a smile playing at his lips. Just- being reminded of how lovely he is, seeing him so happy for his teammates and welcoming affection from them. It’s almost addicting.

Patrice knows that junior and college teams can be stiff, and it’s obvious by some of their reactions that they’re not used to Stanley Cup-winning teammates suggesting that a solid cuddle might fix their problems. Well, maybe nobody is used to it. Patrice watches rookies wrap their arms around Brad, distant and awkward at first as he leans into them. They usually look to him for help, and he only shrugs. At some point, the disbelieving looks fade, and Brad says something that makes them laugh and pull him in tight, and then their faces go back to disbelief and a bit of wonder as he returns to his stall.

There’s something about it that makes Patrice’s heart rise to his throat and forces his eyes back to Brad taking his shinguards off no matter how hard he tries to resist it. He’s certain that there’s something wrong with him, but he can’t stop. He thanks God that having Brad only as a friend doesn’t hurt him at all, really, because otherwise he might suffocate.

Brad is his best friend.

Everyone- coaches, commentators, journalists- says they’re meant for each other, and he’s been thinking about that a lot recently. He thinks they’re right, in a way that isn’t necessarily about hockey. Patrice is thinking about it particularly after their seven goal game against the Hurricanes. The team goes to a bar afterward to celebrate. They congratulate him on his four goals, and he accepts the praise graciously. Playing humble doesn’t work with the Bruins locker room. Patrice is proud of all of them and gives his own congrats to Jake and Danton, because he knows that they’ll want to remember being a part of that game. 

He doesn’t say anything to Brad, just smiles back and hugs him the way Patrice knows he wants. He always makes a sweet contented noise when people let him tuck his chin into their shoulder, and Patrice encourages him to do so. He can feel Brad’s temple brush his jaw when they separate. Separating probably doesn’t accurately describe the action, as Brad stays glued to his side in the booth even after Patrice lets him go. He has his hand on Patrice’s chest.

He looks up, eyes hooded and brows wiggling. “We really kicked their ass, eh?” Brad doesn’t need to question it, but he loves the reassurance, and Patrice would never deny him.

“Yeah,” Patrice says, his expression probably too fond, even though the question never truly registered. He’d say anything for Brad to look at him like that. He tries to keep Brad close for the rest of the night, monopolizing his attention at first, but the team wants to celebrate with the both of them and he isn’t so selfish as to keep them from it. Brad likes hanging all over the younger guys and stealing their drinks, and Patrice likes watching him from afar. It works out for everyone in the end.

Sometimes, he thinks that maybe the rest of the team knows what he’s thinking. He doesn’t feel like it would be too difficult to figure out with an observant eye. That means that it’s primarily Chara and Tuukks giving him looks whenever Patrice makes a beeline for Brad after games, whether they win or lose. He always returns them with the knowledge that they wouldn’t scold him or say anything unless it became an issue.

After people start asking for rides when they’ve decided they’re too old or too young for heavy drinking, Patrice lingers with Brad, who gives everyone hugs and from Pasta, he gets a drunk kiss on the cheek. He mumbles something about Komarov and Brad laughs, bashful every time their teammates remind him that they’ll never let him live that down. His eyes meet Patrice’s for a moment, and they walk out behind the rest of the team side by side. 

Brad, surprisingly, is the one to stop on the sidewalk. As the others turn the corner to carpool with whoever is sober, he puts a hand on Patrice’s shoulder. He’s still grinning, and his cheeks are pink from the cold. Patrice wants to kiss the snowflakes from his eyelashes. “I didn’t say anything because I know everybody must have been driving you crazy with this- but those were amazing goals. You were amazing.”

Patrice blames his singular drink for how little he cares about being obvious right now. “Those goals wouldn’t have landed without you.” Brad makes a little noise, whether it’s from his words or something else. “I wouldn’t have any of this without you here,” he says quietly, because he’s always been more honest with Brad than he has been with himself.

Brad looks at him almost searchingly, lips parted in confusion as he’s caught offguard by the statement. “I- uh, Jesus, Bergy. There’s a lot I want to say, but it’s fucking cold out here.”

_ Sometimes when he’s not out there with me, I do feel a little lost.  _ It’s more than worth a shot. “Come home with me then.” 

He stands there for a moment more, dumbfounded, then nods in agreement and follows Patrice to his car, looking smaller than usual in the passengers seat, being all bundled up. While Patrice starts the car and begins driving in the direction of his house, Brad keeps glancing over at him like he thinks this can’t be real. Patrice understands the feeling. He remembers exactly when he realized he was in love with his left winger, even though he wasn’t playing center then. If any cameras had been on his face when Brad scored the game winning goal at the World Cup, they probably could have seen his jaw clench. It took him a long while to actually stand up in time to catch Brad’s fistbump as he grinned, eyes bright, Patrice helplessly smiling back. He can’t remember what he said when they all finally piled onto the ice to get their medals, something like a distracted “good job, buddy” and then in the locker room when he’d collected himself (and when he was significantly less sober) he laid the praise on thick, knowing it would make Brad smile. He deserved all of it and more. 

He recalls Joe Thornton circling around to talk to him as they left the ice, eyes darting meaningfully between him and Brad. “You’re really proud of him, huh?”

Patrice was  _ so _ proud of him, trembling with it as he wiped sweat from his brow. “God, yeah,” he replied, too enthusiastic, and he could have stopped there and waved it off as excitement after a close victory. “I love him so much,” he continued instead. Thornton didn’t even hear him, but he still thinks about it sometimes and groans in embarrassment.

Now, as he pulls into his own garage, he hopes he doesn’t have to look back on this the same way.

Brad shuffles in the door behind him and takes off his scarf. The house is still dark and neither of them bother with turning the lights on quite yet. “You don’t know how nice it is to talk to you like this,” he says quietly, with his eyes down and his mouth pinched like it’s hard to get out. Patrice pauses in unbuttoning his jacket. “I mean, I know we haven’t said anything yet, but just- with nobody else around. I guess I like getting you alone.” He smiles a little, tight, just so his teeth barely sink into his bottom lip.

Patrice’s gaze lingers purposefully. He doesn’t know for sure- he never does with Brad- but it feels like maybe he’s been doing too much waiting. Brad’s right; despite being the closest of friends, they don’t get to see each other like this enough, outside of camera lenses and practice jerseys and bar crawls. 

Patrice hangs his and Brad’s coats, flicking on the lights before following him to the couch. They’ve never had the concept of a ‘respectful distance’ but Brad seems set on staying within his personal bubble right now, and Patrice nudges him, knowing that isn’t what he really wants. Brad smiles apologetically, even though it hurts him to keep to himself more than it does Patrice, and relaxes against his shoulder.

“What did you want to say to me earlier?”

Brad swallows and looks up, tucking himself further into Patrice’s side. “Well, I just- I wanted you to know that the feeling’s mutual. I can’t imagine being here without you. And I know I’m projecting, and I don’t want to say something stupid, but-”

“Brad,” Patrice says, stopping him in his tracks. “You have to know how I look at you. That’s not projecting.” Brad jerks his chin down to stare intently at the carpet, seeming intimidated by the change of tone in their conversation. That isn’t what Patrice wants, but he can’t not say something when he has Brad right here in front of him. He leans over to try and meet Brad’s eyes. “If that’s what you mean. You saying something stupid has never stopped me before.” Brad huffs a laugh, still avoiding his gaze. “I love your voice,” Patrice continues, because he’s been thinking about that a lot too, and because his dignity doesn’t matter to him nearly as much as he pretends it does.

That gets Brad to look at him, at least, eyes wide. Neither of them are very good at hiding anything, and both of them know it. Patrice doesn’t think his sincerity is being doubted; it’s just a lot to take in. It should be known that Patrice lives and breathes waiting for Brad, so he doesn’t mind waiting some more. He puts his hands in his lap and doesn’t say anything. He can always wait. 

Brad follows the movement of his hands and glances pointedly at where they’re resting, folded on top of Patrice’s thigh. His expression is cautious, and he has to look away again when he slides his own hand over the couch cushion toward Patrice, offering. This isn’t much of a conversation, but Patrice is hopeful in that he thinks he’ll be doing more talking later.

He takes Brad’s hand, delicately running his thumb along Brad’s knuckles, and is quickly offered the other one. Brad’s hands aren’t dainty in any manner, but they’re so beautiful. Sometimes Patrice catches glimpse of the tendons in Brad’s wrist flexing while he tapes his stick, and his throat goes dry. Now Patrice sees the soft curve of his wrist within his reach and can’t resist kissing the back of one hand, and then again pressing his lips right below the other’s heel. He returns his gaze to Brad, who shudders but looks back at him expectantly. “Bergy,” Brad sighs. Patrice opens his mouth to suck at his pulse point, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Oh god, Patrice,” he says, breath faltering. Hearing his name like that, having barely touched Brad, Patrice is convinced he’s been blessed beyond what he deserves. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly, kissing the spot before he pulls away. He isn’t really sorry, of course. Brad’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, even with Patrice still cupping both of his hands. “Your wrists,” he says as if that’s an explanation. Brad, despite the puzzlement evident on his face, turns his hand over in Patrice’s gentle hold, offering the underside of his other wrist for similar treatment. Patrice gives it to him without hesitation, looking up at Brad and laving over his pulse again. Brad starts to tremble, so he pulls back and lets their hands fall between them. Patrice kisses his cheek to quiet his protests. He’s patient, and Brad definitely isn’t, but he doesn’t complain about the slow pace. Patrice hauls him into a hug, and he just nuzzles closer, trying to press himself against Patrice as well as he can while their knees are still touching.

After a moment of pause, Patrice withdraws only enough so that he can kiss Brad, who strains up to meet him halfway. Brad sighs in what sounds like sheer relief when their lips touch, pressing almost too hard and gripping at Patrice’s shirt sleeves like he can’t breathe. Patrice could let it go, enjoy the fact that Brad is so desperate to be kissing him and continue accordingly. He could. “Brad.” As if he ever lets things go. Even when he pulls back, they’re only an inch apart. Brad closes his mouth belatedly, looking scolded. “Do you think I’d have second thoughts?” He shakes his head, but his eyes are wary. Patrice presses a kiss to his temple. “I won’t.”

“I know, I know you won’t,” Brad mumbles.

Patrice laces their fingers together, nosing at his cheek and hearing his breath turn shaky. “I just want to remember this.” Brad seems to barely avoid choking. He balls a fist in the front of Patrice’s sweatshirt. Patrice doesn’t stop him. “Can I?” Brad nods furiously before he can even clarify, and Patrice can feel his smile when he goes to kiss him again, gentle and slow until he can coax Brad’s mouth open. It’s hard not to lose his patience, even harder when Brad stifles a little gasp as Patrice runs his tongue along his bottom lip, but he’s determined to keep the pace slow. He wants to take his time, now that he’s able to.

Brad pushes him back for a moment. “You don’t even  _ know  _ how _ - _ ” Patrice rushes back to kiss right below his jaw, because he does know, and it doesn’t matter anymore. “Since you came back with your gold medal, I thought- I didn’t want to-”

He does a double take. “Which one?” They both look at each other like deers in headlights before Brad hides his face in Patrice’s chest and starts giggling. His shoulders shake with it, and Patrice can’t help laughing with him at how ridiculous it is.

“Sochi. I wouldn’t fall in love for one assist at the Olympics. How low do you think my standards are?” Brad pulls his knees up onto the couch and shakes his head. 

Patrice almost has a stroke over the ‘fall in love’ part of that sentence, but he manages to keep a smile on his face. “Oh, so it only takes two assists at the Olympics to bag you? If I’d have known that-”

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know anything,” he murmurs, leaning in until their lips are touching again. Patrice is genuinely amazed at how soft his mouth is; with how often he gnaws his bottom lip to hell, it’s impressive. Patrice gives it his own little nip for posterity’s sake and pulls him into his lap. Brad makes a high-pitched noise into his mouth. It isn’t a surprise that Brad is loud; the team always teases him for openly moaning at their massage therapist, but he truthfully can’t help it. And the masseuse likes him for it anyway, probably tired of tight-lipped athletes who barely grunt to let her know they’re in pain. Patrice can always hear him yowling all the way from the weight room and without fail always has to put down whatever he’s lifting and sit with his head between his legs until he’s sure he won’t faint. Somebody will usually ask if something’s wrong and Patrice will brush them off, pinching himself until his dick isn’t burning a hole through his shorts. He likes Brad making noise in almost any context, aside from when he’s hurt. He’s never failed to let people know how he feels, and Patrice loves him for it. On that thought, Brad tugs on his sleeve and huffs, sounding impatient even with his gaze averted. “Are we going to-”

He stops himself in the middle of the sentence, and Patrice sits forward. “What do you want?” 

Brad pauses. His eyes shift for a moment more before he finally looks at Patrice. “I want you to take me upstairs, if-” he hesitates again. “If- I don’t know, that’s probably too much, I don’t really  _ need- _ ” Patrice laughs, mostly in surprise, but Brad’s expression would suggest that he’d killed his dog. Patrice makes a noise that he hopes is interpreted as remorseful and pulls Brad closer, bouncing his knee a little to give him something to focus on. He just didn’t expect Brad to say it so gingerly. Patrice, whenever he fantasized about this for too long, usually imagined that Brad would tell him what to do or beg for it, shameless as he is. 

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he assures. Brad fortunately seems to believe him, and the tension seeps out of his frame quickly. “And it’s not too much, you’ve been in my bed before, haven’t you?” He has been in Patrice’s bed, many times in fact; mainly crawling in after bad losses or when he was injured, whenever he didn’t want to go home to his empty bedroom. Brad once showed up at his doorstep after his concussion when he was cleared to leave the hospital, shrugging at Patrice’s concerned protests and saying that he asked Tuukka to drive him there. Patrice didn’t argue against him staying, but refused to let him sleep unattended, and Brad didn’t question his insistence on it. He spent the night staring at the back of Brad’s head and wishing desperately that he was able to protect him. It probably wasn’t very good for his mental state, but he would have felt worse if he hadn’t seen for himself that Brad was okay. He can practically feel his blood pressure rising, thinking back on it- how Brad wanted to see him before even going home- with what he knows now. Krej joked to him once that he was always the first one Brad asked for when he was hurt, and even then his skin prickled at the thought. It’s worse now.

“What are you thinking about?” Brad asks, shifting forward a little in his lap. 

“You.” Patrice kisses his cheek. “Come on, upstairs, bed,” he says, patting Brad’s hip for him to stand up and grabbing his hand as soon as they’re apart. Brad hums in appreciation. Now that he has this, he feels it’s going to be hard to let go. Even just staying away from Brad in the locker room will be a struggle, knowing how easily he yields for Patrice, how his lips part when they kiss. He wouldn’t trade that knowledge for the world.

His bedroom is still dark when they make their way up to it, so Patrice does let go of him briefly to turn on a lamp. Only for a moment. He takes both of Brad’s hands when he turns around and moves them to his shoulders before kissing him gently. He sets his own hands over Brad’s waist and immediately feels that he’s shaking. Patrice slows down a bit just to pull back and look at him, somewhat worried. That doesn’t last for very long after seeing how Brad is smiling. It’s subdued, but it’s the same smile he has on before some games, the one that knows he’s going to take a few big hits and score on a powerplay. He’s always vibrating between periods. It’s anticipation.

Brad pulls him down to get closer and lets Patrice maneuver him over to the bed, grinning the whole way. Patrice isn’t very subtle about what he wants, circling the button of Brad’s jeans, but Brad doesn’t quite understand. His eyes drop, and he reaches down to start getting undressed. Patrice swats his hand away. “Let me,” he says, and watches as Brad’s eyes get wide again. He nods. Patrice has him sit down before dropping to kneel, untying and discarding his shoes first, then unzipping his jeans and peeling them off his thighs. He thanks God that Brad has started to wear straight leg jeans and not the tight ones so much anymore. Even if he always appreciated the look of them. He knows he’ll be so embarrassed in the morning when he remembers having barely been able to control himself, but that doesn’t stop him from hiking Brad’s shirt up and pushing him onto his back, so he can shoulder his way in between Brad’s hips. Patrice closes his eyes, listening to Brad’s breath catch as he leans down to kiss his navel, beginning to suck a light mark into his hipbone.

Brad bucks up so hard that Patrice has to pull away or risk drawing blood. He shakes himself a little. If Brad doesn’t like being marked, that’s perfectly fine with him. It was a spur of the moment thing- he’s never really considered giving hickeys something he was interested in doing- but he still should have asked if it was okay beforehand. “Sorry, I should’ve asked. No one will see it though, if you’re worried.” Brad shakes his head.

“I’m not,” he insists. “I’m not worried.” He sounds less certain now, dropping his shoulders and looking down at Patrice through his lashes. “Can you do it again? Harder?”

Patrice is quick to agree, shocked and pleased all at once. He’s happy to do anything Brad wants him to, happy to find something he likes. He stands up to guide Brad further back onto the bed and crawls between his legs again once he’s settled. He folds Brad’s thin shirt up and over his head, quietly lamenting his inability to dress properly for cold weather. On the bright side, he’s warmer now and Patrice is getting to undress him. He ducks his head and kisses the same spot that had barely been red when he first left it, before going back over, this time with a bit more force. Brad makes a strangled noise when Patrice draws back and thumbs over the little indents of his own teeth. He makes his way up Brad’s body, eventually nuzzling his collar bone and the column of his throat. “You want one here too?” Brad nods, and really, who is Patrice to refuse him? He actually makes three more (slightly painful-looking) marks, all of which are too high to hide, and Brad touches them reverently while Patrice ventures to the edge of the bed to pull off his own pants and his sweater. He decides to keep the t-shirt on.

When Patrice turns back around, he studies Brad for a moment. He’s sitting up; he already has hickeys all over him and his socks are still on. Patrice has to kiss him. Brad returns it easily, and whines when he pulls away, getting quiet when he moves down the bed. “What are you-” Patrice pulls his socks off and throws them halfway across the room with a blank stare. Brad snorts. “Dick.”

Patrice ignores him, instead opting to arrange Brad’s legs to his liking, pushing so his knees are wide open and a little bent. Brad rubs the tops of his thighs self-consciously, and Patrice presses his lips midway down one of them. He grins, slowly becoming more comfortable with the vulnerable position. He opens his mouth to say something when Patrice starts sucking another light bruise into his inner thigh, and he can only moan quietly, letting his head fall back onto the pillows. Patrice is honestly beginning to see the appeal of it. He still wants more. While sinking his teeth into a few other spots, he has one hand snaking around to cup Brad’s ass and the other teasing the outline of his dick. Brad squirms under the faint touches. “Lift up,” Patrice says, and that lets him finally get the last piece of clothing off of Brad. He doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s naked or say anything snarky, just looks expectantly to Patrice for something, maybe what to do next or approval. Patrice doesn’t know which exactly, so he just kisses him hard, cupping his jaw. “Can I blow you?” He’s not one to waste a good opportunity, so he has to ask. The number of times he’s thought about dropping to his knees just because Brad had his legs wide open on a bar stool (he has a naturally wide stance anyway, but he loves taking up room and it makes him look bigger) is frankly sad. 

Brad nods emphatically, and then pauses. “After that, can you fuck me?” Patrice feels that this is a barter, and starts smiling in spite of himself.

“We have morning skate tomorrow,” he says half-heartedly. 

Brad raises a brow as if to say ‘ _ you think that would stop me? _ ’ but his lip quirks after a moment of mock offense. “Well, you won’t  _ hurt  _ me. Maybe I want to feel it. You’d like that, eh? Having me wince whenever I sit down? Please?”

“ _ Crisse. _ Jesus fucking Christ, Brad.” Patrice shudders at the thought, and Brad gives an easy smile, knowing he’s gotten his way. It’s not like it was very hard for Patrice to give into him. He wraps his hand around Brad’s cock and twists his wrist just enough to wipe the smirk off his face. “Only if you’re patient.”

“I’m patient,” he breathes in protest, even as he lets himself be pushed back onto his elbows. Patrice rolls his eyes. “What? When have I ever been impatient?” Brad has a pretty indignant look on his face for being naked and obviously turned on. He can always manage a pout.

“One time you missed a game with burnt fingers because you couldn’t wait for your pizza to cool off.”

Brad folds his arms across his chest. “One time is the important phrase here. Obviously I haven’t done it since then.” Patrice could easily mention other stunts Brad’s pulled in the name of finding a shortcut, but he doesn’t, because he wouldn’t really complain now if Brad asked him to speed it up. Patrice kisses him to admit defeat, and reaches over to the nightstand for a bottle of lube. Brad’s eyebrows raise when he hears a number of objects shuffling in the drawer, but truthfully, none of them are very interesting. “Oh my  _ god, _ ” he says, sudden, possibly staring at Patrice and possibly staring at nothing in particular. Patrice gives him a questioning look, and Brad meets his eyes, pausing for long enough to be concerning, and then gives a shy smile. “I don’t know, I’m just excited.”

Patrice laughs, both out of relief and because he’s shockingly close to having an aneurysm. “I love you so much.” Funny enough, it isn’t hard to say at all. They’ve been exchanging ‘I love you’s for a while now, but he always likes seeing Brad’s face brighten when he says it, and the words feel even better now.

Brad balls his fists in the sheets, tight, his smile still in place. “Right back at ya.” Patrice kisses his inner thigh and has him lie back further, pushing his knees up closer to his chest. Brad goes easily.

“I love you,” Patrice murmurs again, pressing his face against the inside of Brad’s knee. He makes his way up slowly, giving a gentle nip right below the crease of his groin. He smells like the soap they use at the rink. He’s warm and clean and Patrice would absolutely spend years between his legs if he could. Brad’s hips jerk up at being bitten, even as soft as it was, and it’s a perfect opportunity for Patrice to lave over the head of his cock. He’s not fully hard, but Patrice is sure it won’t take long to get him there. He takes the time to mouth at the underside of him, down to the base, and Brad lets out a little sigh. Patrice isn’t always confident in his blowjob skills- he’s never really seen the appeal of oral sex ‘tricks’- but it doesn’t give him cause for worry. Brad isn’t one to need anything special.

He bobs just gently at first, his tongue pressing at the slit each time he comes up, and Brad is satisfied with that, the muscles in his stomach visibly tightening with every whine. Patrice doesn’t do this often enough to consider deepthroating, but he can’t stop thinking about how he  _ could _ just take Brad all the way down if he wanted to. He has a nice dick, but it isn’t long by any means. He’s thick though, and Patrice’s mouth has never been so dry, just looking at him. In the end, Patrice is unable to resist and pulls Brad’s hips up so his nose bumps his stomach, swallows around him out of instinct. Brad presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he can’t watch, breath shaky. He trembles with the effort of keeping his lower half off the bed; it’s obvious he’s trying desperately not to jerk away. Patrice eases up on him after a moment and pops the bottle of lube open. Brad squirms at the sound, but he uncovers his eyes. Patrice crawls up to kiss him, murmuring nonsense and thumbing at a bruise on the side of his neck. His other hand is already slicked, trailing lower. Brad is buzzing with tension.

Patrice knows how hard it is for him to settle and gives him a sympathetic kiss on the forehead. “Relax for me,  _ ange _ . I’m not going anywhere.” The endearment doesn’t necessarily mean to come out, but it does, and Patrice tries to consider how it feels on his tongue, if it sounds right. He isn’t sure yet.

He thinks Brad might balk at any sort of pet name, but instead his eyes go wide and he silently nods his agreement. He takes some breaths and his muscles relax a bit. “Okay,” Brad says. Patrice isn’t even sure  _ he’s  _ ready to do this- he’s wanted it for so long, he needs to be perfect for Brad- but he knows that it’ll be hard to disappoint. Brad, contrary to popular belief and his own declarations, is very forgiving, and Patrice imagines that he’s just as nervous. He blinks at the realization. With the shifting and hesitancy, he’d guessed that it was nerves, but he hadn’t consciously thought about it. Neither of them should be nervous. He’s comforted immensely by what should’ve been an obvious revelation.

Patrice smiles and leans up to kiss him chastely. Brad returns it, but is frowning in confusion when he pulls back. “Brad, it’s just me. It’s just us.” The simple words have an immediate effect as understanding dawns on his face. He can practically see Brad’s mind working as he realizes there’s nothing for him to worry about. The years they’ve known each other, the countless hours spent shoulder to shoulder in booths, locker room stalls, benches- doesn’t add up to something scary. “I want you. That’s all.”

Brad purses his lips and looks away for a moment. He finally sits up, giving Patrice one of those sweet warm hugs. Patrice doesn’t hesitate to wipe the lube off his hand onto the bed so he can return it fully. “Of course it’s just you,” he says, quiet against Patrice’s shoulder, rubbing his face on the fabric. “Who else would put up with me?” Brad, still hiding his face, laughs wetly, and Patrice laughs with him. He smooths Brad’s hair down where it was ruffled by the pillows and cups his cheek when he pulls away. He’s definitely tearing up, and Patrice wouldn’t blame him for pulling away to wipe at his eyes, but he doesn’t. He just sniffs and clutches at Patrice’s t-shirt. “Get naked, you asshole.” Patrice can’t help laughing harder at the ire in his breaking voice, but he obeys anyway, quickly stripping the rest of his clothing off.

He pushes Brad back onto the bed and gets the lube  _ again,  _ since he was forced to ruin the first try. Brad just grabs at his arms appreciatively until Patrice’s back at the point he was at before, thumbing at Brad’s hole and putting the slightest bit of pressure. Patrice kisses him gently while he presses his index finger inside, slow and easy with Brad sinking further into the bedspread. A shaky breath turns into a moan when Patrice wraps his lips around Brad’s cock again. Hearing those noises, hearing his voice and knowing who it belongs to, has to be one of the most unexpected power trips Patrice has ever experienced. Patrice rewards him with suction and a second finger. Brad seems to try instinctively squeezing his legs together, but he’s blocked by Patrice’s shoulders, and that makes him moan again, louder.

In all honesty, Patrice expected him to talk more. He looks like a dirty talker, and when the concept of fucking him was merely a hypothetical, Patrice fantasized accordingly. Now that he’s here and Brad is whimpering helplessly and leaking in his mouth, he thinks he much prefers reality. He’s never been so pleasantly surprised.

But Brad isn’t completely speechless. “I don’t need much more, uh, fingers,” he pants, obviously having a difficult time thinking. Patrice looks up at him, skeptical. “I do this a lot, just at home.”

Patrice pulls back, eyes dark. He wants to bite Brad for telling him something like that, and he sort of does, adding to the marks he already made with an especially dark one by the junction of Brad’s neck and shoulder. He shifts incessantly, breathing through his mouth, while Patrice looms over him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Brad shakes his head, his lip quirking up a little, and Patrice can’t not kiss him. “You’ll have to show me some time.”

Brad opens his mouth to say something, but narrowly avoids biting his tongue when Patrice pulls his fingers out to make sure they’re still sufficiently slick and returns with a third just to be sure. Brad’s eyes flutter shut, and he lets out a shocked whine when Patrice curls the digits inside him. His brows draw together, sloped and pleading as Patrice lovingly kisses the head of his cock. He withdraws his fingers, laving over the very tip and sucking him back in just because he can. Brad flinches at every movement, obviously sensitive. “Jesus.  _ Jesus. _ Bergy, please.”

“I know,” Patrice replies, rubbing his other hand over Brad’s chest and stomach, feeling the lines of tension slowly relax. He hums in consideration while grabbing a condom he’d taken out before. “Do you want to ride me?”

Brad nods fervently. “Yeah, that’s- yeah.” He laughs, thin and breathy. “Sounds like you do this a lot.” He gestures to the drawer. Patrice smiles.

“I don’t. I waited for you.” He doesn’t open the packet quite yet, instead going to stroke Brad since he’s right there, and he still has lube on his hand.

Brad gasps and holds onto his shoulders. “Oh,” he sighs, and Patrice lets him go. “Same here.” His voice is still tight, but Patrice just wants to hear him for a little while. Brad shifts onto his knees. “I always thought you’d be more, I don’t know, modest or something,” he says, pondering. Patrice thinks it’s funny they both had fantasy versions of each other that actually exaggerated the other’s personality, rather than a wet dream that would unfold perfectly the way they wanted it. And even funnier that the reality  _ is  _ unfolding perfectly.

“And I always thought you’d be more of a dirty talker, but here we are.”

Brad looks up at him earnestly. “Do you want me to talk more?”

Patrice shakes his head and pulls him in. “No, this is perfect. You’re perfect the way you are, and I want you like this,” he insists, firm enough to make it clear this is not to be argued. 

He doesn’t try. “God, you can’t say things like that.” Patrice contemplates what kind of position would be best for doing this while Brad crosses his arms over his chest, abashed.

“I just did. And I’ll do it again.” He starts throwing pillows to the foot of the bed, paying no mind to Brad’s huffing, and squeezes his own dick to take the edge off. Patrice figures having his back against the headboard is the most comfortable option, but he wants to be upright so he can be as close to Brad as he possibly can. “Come here,” he says, sitting with one pillow behind him, his legs crossed. Brad obeys, coming over to straddle him. God. He’s so solid and warm in Patrice’s lap. He looks smaller when he isn’t arching to puff out his chest, but still so sturdy. Patrice can’t keep his hands off him.

Brad’s whole face is pink, whether from the touches or the earlier praise, he doesn’t know. Patrice rips the packet open so he can roll the condom on, slicking up a little more if only to make himself feel better, since Brad clearly isn’t worried about it. Patrice encourages him to sit up on his knees, his hands on Patrice’s shoulders. “You can start whenever you want.” Brad nods, and he’s shaky reaching behind him to hold Patrice’s dick steady- his grasp so gentle that it seems like he’s trying to be careful, which is a cute idea- but he manages with a little help. Brad sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and lets his eyes fall shut, Patrice’s hand splayed on his hip while the other is working over his flushed cock. Brad sinks down just an inch or two, his tongue poking out in concentration. 

“Brad,” Patrice manages to get out, and he pauses, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Look at me, baby.” Of course, he does, mainly out of shock. Patrice can’t wait until the day when Brad isn’t caught off-guard by his affection, when it becomes commonplace enough that he only preens at the words. Brad squirms a little, keeping his gaze until he’s finally flush against Patrice’s lap. Then he drops his head onto Patrice’s shoulder and lets out a long, desperate whimper. The sound will probably haunt Patrice for a long time. Brad covers his face after that, like he didn’t want to make any noise at all. It’s probably harder to be open about what feels good in this context, but Patrice would still hope that he gets more moans from Brad than the team masseuse does. He doesn’t have the mind to do anything more than squeeze Brad’s hip encouragingly until he decides to come out of hiding. 

Before daring to show his face again, Brad gently rocks, testing. They both shudder with the movement. Patrice sets his teeth against Brad’s collar bone, and he shifts in surprise, fingers drifting to the hair on the back of Patrice’s neck. The new angle makes him gasp. “Oh, fuck,” he says. Patrice withdraws from stroking his dick in favor of using both hands to lift Brad, and he drives his hips up, maybe too quickly. Brad’s mouth drops open in a loud cry. It’s clear he’s past the point of embarrassment. “ _ Patrice _ ,” he pleads, high and reedy. Patrice just kisses him and holds him so they’re chest to chest. His lips are bitten red and his eyes are watery. He’s so beautiful, Patrice can’t believe he gets to do this.

The pleas are ignored for the most part. “God, you’re beautiful,” Patrice says, because he needs to. Brad has to know. He whines, neglecting to give a direct response, so Patrice continues, gently rolling his hips forward with a dry throat. “Always think about you like this, in my bed.” Brad makes a strangled noise, almost scandalized by the idea. Patrice realizes at this point that he isn’t getting the best view of Brad in his bed, and that the position is nice for keeping him close but not very efficient. He puts his hand flat on the small of Brad’s back, running along the curve of it. “Why don’t you lie down?” Patrice asks. He nods and slowly sits up on his knees to have them both grunting simultaneously.

Brad easily falls back onto the pillows, and Patrice takes a moment to look at him. It isn’t often enough that he’s gotten to admire Brad’s sharp lines and smooth skin. He has so much strength in him; it’s staggering. “Patrice.” It seems like Brad has said his name about a hundred times, and he certainly doesn’t mind that, but this one is a bit impatient.

“Hush, I’m busy.” Patrice lifts his legs and stares just a little more. 

Brad rolls his eyes and huffs, so sweet even when he’s pouting. “You could be getting more busy,” he says, but the moan at the end as Patrice plays with the head of his cock sort of defeats the purpose. It takes a moment for him to speak again. “Be nice to me,” Brad continues, coquettish and with a shaky grin. 

Patrice leans down to capture his lips while he’s distracted. “I will. Of course I’ll be nice to you,  _ ange _ .” He settles, comfortable with Brad’s thighs over his, and slowly presses back in, struggling to keep steady. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to resist letting out a string of curses. It’s so satisfying to see their hips touch, to feel how warm he is. Brad swallows visibly. He reaches for Patrice’s hand, although it’s not obvious what he wants to do with it, so Patrice doesn’t move for a moment. Brad draws his hand back to his chest then. It’s incredible to think that by now, he doesn’t know Patrice would do anything for him. “Hey, what did you want me to do?” He isn’t about to let this go, but it doesn’t seem like Brad wants to make it hard for him.

Brad shrugs, eyes closing. He grabs Patrice’s hand without looking and entwines their fingers together over his heart. “You should hold my hand and shit,” he says quietly, like it’s a suggestion. Patrice smiles, even knowing he can’t see it, and squeezes his hand.

“You don’t have to ask for that,” Patrice replies, rocking into him so he gasps and tightens his grip a bit. He starts to thrust in earnest, albeit slowly, still getting accustomed to the position and trying to figure out what Brad likes. Whenever his eyes get wide, Patrice leans into that angle to keep him whimpering. On one thrust, his back arches off the bed, and Brad shouts. Patrice doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more than he wants to make Brad come in this moment. Neither of them stop to talk, both panting hard and concentrating on the other. Patrice has his teeth set over a sensitive spot on Brad’s chest, just digging in hard enough to be threatening when he’s jolted up by a thrust. Brad hauls him up for a kiss, letting go of his hand only to wrap both arms around his shoulders. Patrice just mutters into his ear anything that comes to mind, shit he’ll probably be embarrassed about later. “So sweet, always so perfect, fuck-” He wraps his fingers around Brad’s cock now that he has his other hand free, and the reaction is immediate.

Brad wails, sounding almost panicked, like he’d never expected Patrice to touch him at all. He squirms under Patrice’s weight and lifts his hips, and if he were more flexible or if he were selfless enough to stop fucking Brad, Patrice would suck him off again. He wants to feel Brad pulse when he comes- but he has time for that later. “Patrice,” Brad says.

“I’m here,” he answers needlessly. Patrice works him over with a gentle grip, and Brad is chanting his name, trembling, eyes wide and wet at the corners. Patrice steadies Brad to drive deeper with his thrusts, and muffles a groan into the side of his neck. “I’m right here.”

“I’m-”

“Come on, Marchy,” Patrice urges gently, and Brad starts to shake through his orgasm before the words are even out of Patrice’s mouth, throwing his head back and spilling over his own stomach. Patrice is patient in waiting for Brad to ride it out before pulling his hand or hips away; he wants Brad to have that bliss for as long as he can swing it, and Patrice watches him intently, catching every tremor and committing them all to memory. He only withdraws when Brad starts to whimper at the oversensitivity- slips the condom off so he can add to the wet spot on his stomach. He didn’t realize he was so close, but it doesn’t take him another minute with the hand tugging his dick still covered in Brad’s come and Brad pawing at his chest helplessly, eyes glazed over. Patrice stutters on a moan at the sight, and he’s gone.

When he opens his eyes a moment later, Patrice decides to just sort of rest his head next to Brad’s instead of lying down. That would make it too easy to fall asleep when he knows he has to clean up first. They kiss each other’s necks to alert that they’re still awake, and at some point, Brad possesses the energy to hug him.

He sighs, and when he flops back on the bed, Patrice can see he’s smiling. “I can wait to shower in the morning.”

Patrice makes a noise in the negative and moves back as if to sit up. He stops with his face hovering above the mess and belatedly decides that he’s lazy, and that he’s always a big fan of trying to impress Brad, so the best option is to lick up his stomach in stripes to clean him. He wouldn’t usually like doing this, but really Patrice likes doing anything for Brad. A hand falls on the top of his head once he’s done, urging him to come up, so he does.

Brad kisses his cheek, and then he remembers something. “Wait, fuck,” Patrice says, and he pulls back completely, looking concerned. “I still have to get up and brush my teeth now, goddamnit.” Brad takes a moment to absorb that, and then laughs his ass off as Patrice shuffles, grumbling, to the bathroom.

Patrice walks back after using mouthwash to be safe, and he sees Brad still smiling but a little out of it. “Okay?” he questions, climbing onto the bed to capture his lips now that he can. Brad gives him a nod when he pulls back, but doesn’t say anything. Patrice doesn’t speak either, can see the wheels turning in his head. He wants to give Brad time to think.

It turns out that he doesn’t have anything to say. He quickly kisses Patrice and wriggles under the sheets, pulling the comforter taut over his nose and mouth to hide most of his face. Patrice, even thinking that something is being left unsaid, gives him an adoring smile and presses his lips to Brad’s forehead. There’s something so vulnerable about him here, though he’s curled up and somewhat hidden under the bedspread. Patrice also gets under, seeking warmth now that the sweat is cooling. He’s ready to turn off the lamp and say good night when he sees Brad’s eyes go big looking at him. He looks worried enough that Patrice almost wants to glance behind him just to make sure there’s not a giant spider on the wall. “Patrice?” Brad calls, muffled by the blankets. He nods. “I just- I love you. Sorry. God, I probably should’ve said that earlier.”

Patrice grins and surprises him with an arm around his waist. “Don’t apologize. I love you too.” Brad squirms closer to rub his face on Patrice’s chest, obviously happy to hear it again. Patrice swallows hard and turns off the light, Brad’s head tucked under his chin as he nods off.

 

-

 

After waking up, they shower and eat breakfast together, and Brad’s feelings are still raw, so he’s stuck to Patrice’s side for most of the morning. The truth is that Patrice would be doing the clinging if Brad weren’t doing it for him, so he doesn’t mind one bit. 

They take Patrice’s car to the rink and kiss in the front seat for a minute or two before taking their bags in. There’s no reason to have morning skate at home before a bye week, but he’s sure the coaches have a method to their madness. He would just prefer to be home. Before they get to the locker room, Brad grabs his hand to stop him and lingers there as Patrice turns and faces him.

“How much should we tell the guys?” Brad asks, tilting his head questioningly. 

“However much you want to tell them. I kind of want them to figure it out for themselves, but if you just want to get it out there, I’ll help you talk to them if you need it.” They both know better than to think any of their teammates would be unsupportive. Even call-ups from Providence are immediately made aware that while their opinions are respected, any jackassery is grounds to send them right back. Patrice wants his teammates to know, but he doesn’t think he and Brad should have to spell it out for anyone.

Brad is obviously grateful for the offer, but he shakes his head. “No, no, you’re right. That’s genius. Subtlety isn’t my strong suit-” Patrice snorts. “But I think I can manage. I don’t want an announcement or anything either.” He pecks Patrice’s cheek, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he opens the door to their stalls. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

The boys are oblivious as usual, and there’s nothing unusual for their observant captain and/or goalie to latch onto. Brad wriggles out of his shirt and jeans as slow as he usually does. When he turns around to steal Krej’s coffee, Jake audibly gasps from his stall across the way, and then immediately schools his features to an apologetic look. Patrice sucks absently at his water bottle to resist smiling.

“Sorry,” Jake says, obviously embarrassed. He really seems worried about having offended Brad over a couple of well-defined hickeys.

Brad hazards a quick glance at Patrice and grins, touching one mark on the side of his neck. “Brusky, you don’t have to do that. I’m the one who should apologize for exposing myself in front of children. Truly irresponsible of me. I’m sorry.” Brad solemnly claps him on the shoulder, and Jake laughs, ever the good sport and relieved to be so easily forgiven. Brad is his favorite, and he hasn’t quite learned yet how hard it is to ruffle any of them. Unfortunately, the noise did attract the attention of their teammates, who are now interrogating Brad without shame. When Bruce comes out of his office, he sees the commotion and surrenders his own mug to Brad out of pity. 

Speaking of pity, Zdeno comes over to pat the top of Patrice’s head, which means his small bit of acting is paying off. He nods gratefully even knowing there’s no reason for it.

“ _ Ow _ .” Brad elbows Nasher in the ribs when he pokes one of the bruises, and slurps his coffee indignantly despite not actually being in pain. “These aren’t any of your goddamn business,” he says, voice light, but he clearly means it. “You’ll know when you know.” They grumble at the cryptic tone but don’t argue, while Brad starts putting on his pads. Preparation resumes, Bruce announces the lines for practice, and Brad doesn’t wince once. Patrice isn’t  _ that  _ disappointed.

On the ice is a different story. The whole team goes about their regular motions before drills, stretching and double-checking their equipment. Patrice is no exception. The typical conversation between Pasta and Krej is especially loud today, but it makes for good white noise. He knows well enough that he can occasionally zone out in practice and still play a hard game, and of course, his mind is somewhere else. He smiles to himself, thinking about how much can change overnight. Right when he’s going to start daydreaming for the last few minutes before work has to be done, he hears a short yelp. His head whips around, probably too fast to pass off as nonchalant. Brad is only a few feet away, trying to sit back on his knees from whatever position he was in, his back straight and rigid. He probably looks more shocked than Patrice does. He should have expected an ache anyway, but-

Patrice slides over on his knees to wrap his arm around Brad’s shoulders. “Decisions catching up to you?” It’s somewhat of a tease, but it’s offset by how Patrice is squeezing him too carefully so as not to cause another twinge.

“I’m not complaining,” he retorts, bumping their hips together. They’re both smiling like fools.

It speaks volumes about their dynamic that it takes less than an hour for the first person to figure it out, and that the person in question is possibly the most oblivious teammate they have. Charlie, of all people, sees them huddled close and puts two and two together. “Oh my god,” he says, quietly at first, and then again, garnering the attention of a few others. Patrice and Brad also turn to look at him, still attached at the hip as usual.

“What?” Pasta asks, searching fruitlessly in the direction Charlie’s looking, as if they aren’t even there.

“Nothing.” He makes eye contact with both of them. “Thought I saw the lights over there flicker.”

Brad scoots away for a moment to stand and skates in circles around the group. “Alright, who forgot to pay the electrical bill? Who wants to bet Noel was signing for a Bugatti instead of checking his mail?” Everyone laughs, but Charlie’s sounds extremely unnerved. Brad headbutts him affectionately once they all go back to what they were doing, really leaning into it. He’s able to actually knock Charlie off balance. “Nice one. Try bringing that quick thinking onto the ice some time.” Charlie stands there in shock before laughing again, this time with much less anxiety. He jabs Brad in the side just as hard. Patrice knows that anybody would look at their relationship and think he was the diplomatic side of it, but truly, he’s envious of Brad’s ability to find an answer for everything. He wouldn’t know how to respond to any of this, and he’s so happy to have Brad at his side.

“You’re so clever,  _ ange _ ,” he says, and Brad grins, his ears turning red. He taps Patrice’s calf with his stick as they both line up for a scrimmage. “You don’t know how lucky I am.”

Brad takes a moment to look him over, already with a competitive gleam in his eye. “You know, I really think I do.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm desperate for interaction and headcanons come talk to me @bostonbruiins on tumblr
> 
> kudos and comments are all appreciated ily!!!


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